


The Losers Club of Derry, Maine

by malepllers



Series: The Losers Club of Derry, Maine [1]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:32:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6539113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malepllers/pseuds/malepllers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing series of kids encountering Pennywise the Clown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Losers Club of Derry, Maine

_Plink. Plink. Plink_. Droplets of water trickle out of the faucet, falling slowly into the full tub, sending tiny reverberations over the surface of the steaming bath water.

 

Stan is eleven years old and completely unaware that the _plink plink plink_ of dripping blood onto a tile surface would be the last thing he would hear before uttering his last dying breaths nearly 27 years from now. But it is not 1985, it’s 1958. The steam is especially dense because of the harsh February Maine winter. Though the house is centrally heated, the insulation and the single paned windows allow a chilling draft to course through the house.

 

Condensation covers the darkened windows, snow lining the divided window panes is the only visible outside feature.

 

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

 

Stan walks over to the tub, inserts the tips of his fingers into the water to test the temperature; he lets out an audible sigh of relief, as the water temperature meets his expectations. Slowly he unbuttons his white oxford cotton shirt, slides it off his shoulders, exposing his tucked-in, ribbed undershirt.

 

Before he can undo his belt, heavy footsteps echo throughout the empty house. He is eleven after all and his parents allow him to stay home on his own. They are only out for a couple hours, having cocktails at the Frezniks’. He’s an only child, so he is surely home alone.

 

 _Thump. Thump. Thump_.

 

“Mom? Dad?” he calls out, hoping to hear a melancholic and potentially drunk response from his mother or the booming _yes_ … from his father.

 

 _Thump. Thump. Thump._ The footsteps sound closer to the stairs. _Thump. Plonk. Thump._ Clearly, the heavy-footed figure had made their way onto the bottom steps.

 

“Staaaaaaaaaannnnn. Staaanley boy,” an eerie, wispy, deep voice called out to him.

 

Stan ran over to the bathroom door and ensured it was locked. Fear denied him a response. “Stan. Open the door, Stan. It’s your good friend Bob. Bob Gray. I only want to bathe you like a good friend. And give you a balloon.”

 

Stan’s heart pounded heavily in his chest, the undeveloped veins in his boyish arms pulsed with fear. _Thump. Thump. Thump._ The footsteps moved closer to the door. A dark shadow appeared through the large crack at the foot of the door, the hall light illuminating the figure just outside. _BANG! BANG! BANG!_ Whoever was outside was now at the bathroom door, willing their way inside, banging on the door, sounding as if they will break through!

 

Stan let out a piercing scream, the kind only a pre-pubescent boy can emit under duress. “Stan, I’m only here to help you. And give you a balloon. They float, you know. They all float. And if you let me in, you can float, too.”

 

An enticed Stan began inching closer to the bathroom door. Childhood permits a blurring of imminent danger with unyielding intrigue. _Who is this_ he thought to himself. _I’ve never heard of a Bob Gray. What’s he doing in my house? Why does he have balloons?_ his boyish logic continued.

 

Just as he reached for the door handle to unlock it, his parents’ called out to him. Their voices released him from the trenchant fear/intrigue dominating him physically and mentally. He flung open the door only to see a floating green balloon with a picture book-esque clown imprinted on it. The clown was smiling, razor sharp teeth gleaming through, and silver colored eyes staring back at him. Even though the imprint was black with rubbery green replacing what would normally be white, three orange pom-poms could be clearly made out.

 

“Stan, what are you doing up there? Stan,” his mother called out to him. As she uttered his name that last time, the clown winked at him. He gasped loudly. Fear spread throughout his body again. Implausibly, the clown spoke to him from the balloon, “Next time you won’t be so lucky, Stanley boy. Until we meet again.” Upon uttering those final words, Bob Gray the Clown emitted a snarl and a growl. Just as Stan let out a resounding cry of fear, the balloon burst with a loud _POP!_


End file.
